Thief
by Twilights Pastel Reflections
Summary: I was not this worthless man. I was not always a thief and a murderer, I was more. So much more. The thief beside the Lord tells his tale. Will you listen?Repost. Now Edited!


_**AN: Once again this is a re-post. I have to re-post it because of the new "no lyrics" rule. This was originally written with the lyrics for "Thief" by Third Day. I love reviews, they inspire me to keep writing. Don't flame me if this is against your religion please. This is a Bible section for Bible based writings. Don't flame at all. If there is something in here that you do not like, calmly tell me. I have no problem going back and fixing any errors. And if this is against what you believe, just calmly tell me what it is you believe and why. See, we can all be nice and civil people: ) **_

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Disclaimer: I do not own the Bible, but the Author owns my heart and soul.**_**_

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Inu-lover15: Thank you my Beta Reader! Luv ya girl!_**_**

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Thief**_

Darkness.

I cannot remember the last time I saw the sun or bathed in its warmth. Deep beneath the earth's sands and crust, there is little light. Minute shafts of peach and gold rays sorrowfully beam down through the gaps in the rusted metal bars above, but no matter how forcefully I pull at my chains, I can never reach them. 'Tis but a sick game of my captors, my torturers, and my executioners, all one in the same. I long to feel the sweet warmth of those particles of light, but chains hold me to this rotten wall covered in the city grime, a reminder of who I am.

I cannot recall how many weeks I have wasted away beneath civilization, reduced to nothing more than a vermin, scrounging about the gloom and filth that only those condemned experience. In the farthest corner of this pitiful cell, darker than the darkest plot, shaded in the shadows and ridden with moss and human waste, I sit in solemn silence.

Heavy chains bind my wrists to the cool walls, digging into my flesh until blood trickles down my arms and flows silently to the dirt. I cannot feel anymore. The throbbing agony of the multiple lacerations that decorate my back has dulled to numbness. Soiled garments swallow my thin form, hanging limply off my shoulders. Why can't I feel?

Pitiful tears trail down my mortified cheekbones as I try to remember what my life use to be like. I was not this worthless man. I was not always a thief and a murderer, I was more. So much more. Leaning my head against the grotesque wall, I allow my thoughts to crawl to the darkest memory I hold, to the secret seclusion in my mind that I have kept hidden for so long. My shame and my fate.

I can still remember the man crying in pain as thick liquid poured from his side. I felt nothing then either. Taking that which I could not have has thrilled my senses, until they craved for more. Until, they craved for blood, the blood of an innocent man, but what do I know of innocence? I am but the oxymoron to innocence. I am the lurid vulture that sweeps upon the pure, stealing from them any light that they possess. I am death.

Now I sit in this lurid prison, haunted by fleeting memories and trapped in the colorless world I have concocted. How long before they will come for my life? I have longed for death for so many dark nights, the calming bliss of fading from the world, floating beyond the grasp of any human hand, devoid of emotion, and absent of feeling. I deserve nothing but death. The death of a thief.

Pale moonlight now spills through the bars. I know somewhere beyond what I can see there are the small flecks of stars scattered about the heavens. Tears willingly come now. What sort of man sheds tears of fright? I have become but a weak child that calls for his mother in the shadows of the dark.

But I do fear, and it frightens me, rattling my bones in a sick hallow whisper. I fear and my heart pounds deep within the cavity of my breast, until it feels as if it would burst. I am alone. I will die alone.

But I would have like to see those stars, one last time.

Sunrise.

Its golden rays shine down in a comforting aurora. The light remains out of reach from my withered, nimble fingers to grasp. Far in the distance, I can here the cock crowing above the voices of the city. A long groan of hinges fills the ominous void and a shaded form begins to shift towards me. Today is the day.

The massive form waltzes pompously towards my cowering form, and he reaches out his hand to snag the chains. I recoil from his hands and he laughs. His heavy bellows send shivers creeping up my spine, their tingling legs gripping at my bones as they scuttle throughout my nerves. I wince at the hoarseness of his chuckle, for it lacks not emotion, but is filled with . . . familiarity. How many men has he seen flogged? Murdered? His laugh betrays his own numbness, for he has been taught the way of the soldiers, to take pleasure in a lowly prisoner's grief.

Yanking at the chains, I hiss as he pulls me to my feet, the chains rubbing the opened wounds of my wrist. They are salt upon them. My balance is unsteady as he leads me out of the cell and into the bright daylight. I feel drunk with disillusionment, detached with my very own body. The searing rays burn my pupils and my vision blurs.

Vehement shouts of anger and detest fill my ear drums until the hurt is so grave that it seems that they would bleed. For a moment the guard leaves my side and silence sits among the crowd before a single stone is thrown at my body. Falling to my knees, I cower before their judgment as the guards chuckle and encourage them. Blood paints my face in a sticky scarlet that begins to crust in the morning sun. Green and purple bruises litter my face and I spit up bile. The metallic taste lingers on my taste buds. I can hear the guards shout at me to rise, but my body will not respond. I can feel them pull my body up and I will my legs to hold my weight, but scream in despair as they buckle. Throwing me as a girl's rag doll towards the crowd, I fall to my knees. They know not how my body aches, how it throbs. They do not know my life before. Before . . . I cannot remember my life before. I cannot remember anything anymore.

It has been such a long time since I have lived in peace and rest.

Every fiber of my body burns. O' it burns! Calloused hands claw at my flesh as they drag me from the wrath of the barbaric crowd. In the distance I can hear more shouts of malevolence. To what poor soul is the prey to those wails, I pity. Delusion invades my mind and I cannot steady my feet. The images around me blur to naught but colors and shapes. Rough fingers wrap about my arms and throw me to the hard desert sands. I can feel the soft blades of spring grass under my severed fingers. Pain erupts in a violent flash of white before my eyes and I crumple to the ground. I can feel the too familiar liquid as it begins to water the earth beneath me.

For a brief moment, I find comfort. For a couple of blissful seconds, I can feel my mind drift, and I am home. Home . . .

Massive hands pull me so that I am on my knees. For a fleeting second, our eyes meet. I can barely see his pupils, but I know he sees mine. For that single moment, the hate melted from his eyes and something else flooded in its place. Pity, perhaps, or is it guilt? Without warning, a heavy weight rests itself across my back. Rough and splintered bark digs into my already marred flesh. What burden shall I have to bear now?

Chips break off and stick into the whip marks on my back, embedding themselves in the open and infected gashes. I can hear the soldiers shout at me to get up and to walk. With all the strength I have, I shove my body from the floor and take minute step after minute step. Another man has joined me along the way. He too is branded a thief and a murderer, but he is not like me. His eyes reveal a world of nothingness. My eyes are not so empty.

The crowd surrounds us, forcing my steps to halt. These weak knees buckle once more, and I touch the familiar shards of glass. My eyes, though blurred, and my mind, though sizzling, focus upon the face of a young boy. His hair swirls in the desert wind as he watches me. The boy steps forward, his hand reaching out to me, this desert angel. What child would touch my flesh that is so tainted with another's blood? The boy's hand is so close, then . . . it is gone. A man pulls the child close to his chest as I gaze up at them. His eyes hold no pity or mercy, but condemnation, an emotion I deserve. But it does not prevent a solo tear from dripping down my cheek, and my body sobs, but only once. I am still a man.

The guard grips my shoulders, and I hold the stare of the child as I stumble to my feet. Turning, I take the splintered cross upon my back, and I walk past the father and his son. The crowd is now silent as they watch me. I stare into their eyes. A mother turns away from me. A father sneers. What am I to do? Perhaps they will kill me now, and I wait for the cool metal to prick my throat. But a young servant moves aside, and slowly a path is created. The soldier shoves me forward, and I slowly move, allowing the curses of the mad man to be my guide.

The road is rough. Sharp stones slice my feet and several times my step stumbles and I tumble to the floor, the massive cross falling across my form. The crowd shouts insults and profanities at us, myself and the mad man. I say nothing. My tongue is swollen and sweat cascades down my body. The man beside me shouts back with as much venom in his words as those of the crowd. Does he not know our fate? A guard appears at my side and smirks. The whites of his teeth gleam in the light that still is able to break through the thick storm clouds that have gathered. He sneers harsh words into my ear and points to a hill. The large mound is shaped as a skull. Large crevices litter the sides and random patches of decaying grass struggle for life about its surface. My heart begins its heavy thud and I will the tears back. Thunder rumbles far off in the distance and lightning crackles through the atmosphere as we move steadily up the twisting path.

They throw my body down upon the now cool sands. I tremble and quake before their lustful gaze. Without warning they grab my wrist and I thrash every limb as they strap my wrists to each side of the cross. I am vulnerable. I bear no protection, but am prey to their wishes. They fasten my feet, one atop the other, and bind them to the wooden beam. The straps of leather burrow deeper into my wrists, and I find my breath is coming in shallow gasps. I am suffocating. The soldiers laugh and jeer at me, and one slaps my face.

The threats of the other man fill my ears as he hollers to all that are in earshot. I cannot see him, but I can feel the malice he spews out of every pore in his body. It creeps about the sands and twists through the crowd, crawling into all ears and crevices it can reach.

Just as he is mid-curse, he screams. It is no ordinary scream. No, it is one that I wish none to hear. It is the heart wrenching scream of a man in the most sickening of agony and torment. They burrow into the skin and scratch against the bones. The screams and cries do not cease. It rattles my head and white flashes before my eyes. I have lost control of my body. It trembles and it jerks. I do not want to be here, in this wretched land of death. I want to cry out, but my voice does not come. I move my lips, but none notice. It do not want to be here, I want to go home. Please, let me go free! I am not like this man. Please!

The guards are solemn now, and a few even wince at the cries. My eyes widen in shear horror as one man steps forward, hammer in one hand, and three wide iron nails in the other. He kneels before me and I cannot move. I tremble as he shuffles through his tools. I move my lips into a single word. The soldier peers down at me, and another shouts above the others, "He wishes to speak. Well, then, let us see what he has to say!"

The man beside me moves his ear closer as I gasp. I cannot speak! Why will the words not come? I choke upon my own saliva. Taking a deep breath, I move my lips into that one word.

"H-home."

The soldier roar.

"You will be home soon enough," whispers the soldier beside me, as he retrieves the tools he sought to use.

Shutting my eyes from the sight I gasp as the cool feel of metal meets the flesh of my wrist. Shills creep up my spine and I suck in my breath as I prepare for the blow.

Then, searing anguish, a misery above all miseries. The dull metal burrows deeper and deeper between the two bones that shape my wrist, tearing the arteries and severing veins. I choke, the air is not coming. I shriek, and when I twist, the flesh tears and the bones crack.

The centurion moves to the next arm as I wither before him, my life source spilling from each hole he creates. The hammer's blows echo in my ears. The dull thump as it pushes those nails further into my body fades into the distance, much as a ripple. The tears come between sobs. I wish for a home that is so far away. A home that I cannot remember.

Finally the hammer comes down upon my feet and the sound of bones snapping pierces my every thought and I scream until screams can no longer be uttered. My throat is hoarse and I choke on a mix of bile and blood as the cross is hoisted into a pre-planned ditch. My body is flung forward as I watch the sand move away from my face, until I stand perpendicular to the earth. My skin shreds as the trunk is dropped into the hole with a dull thud. My feet rest upon a miniature step and I shove my feet further down the nail as I push myself up for breath, the oxygen that is now my only hope for life. The crowd is silent for a moment and the only noise is the heavy and shallow wheezing of myself and the man beside me.

Jeering fills the silence once more, and I glance down to see a man struggling to carry His own burden up to His death.

Oh how I wish they would be silent, to allow me to die is as much peace as I can!

Struggling to remain conscious, I watch intently as they tie the man to the wooden beams. He speaks not. Not an utter of protest escapes His cracked lips. He struggles not in a worthless attempt to save His life, but rather, I witness in shock, He seems to gratefully embrace His cross. He is a mad man.

I wince for Him as the nails invade His body. He convulses and cries out into the darkening sky. The cry breaks my heart for an unknown reason as to why I sympathize with this broken soul. The blood pouring from His wrists is barely noticeable as it blends in with the rest of the drying liquid. He no longer looks like a man. Whip marks savagely decorate His body in an abstract pattern. Parts of flesh are missing from His chin and a solo tear strings down my own as my sight lingers on a finely constructed crown of thick thorns that rests upon His head, its thorns embedded deep within His skull.

A small group of women gather around Him and a man holds tightly to one who is sobbing. I can feel the rancor growing within my heart like a weed as the crowd strips Him of His clothes and dignity. Taking one last nail they hammer a pathetic sign above His head. _King of the Jews_, I read. The crowd jests at the sign. My mind whirls rapidly as I attempt to remember where I had heard of this man.

He was not my neighbor, nor was he the local tailor. He did not look like a sailor, nor a merchant. He was not a Pharisee, for they reside in their Temple, counting the donations and taxes collected each day. But nor does he appear to be a criminal, not a thief or a murderer.

Then I remember. He was a carpenter. He created beautiful wooden furniture, sculpting elegant carvings of exotic creatures. That is where I have seen His face. But what wrong can a lowly carpenter do?

I listen to the weeping woman as she murmurs to herself, and I catch a single word that caresses her lips, "Jesus."

My breath hitches. It cannot be! Jesus . . . the man who walked the streets healing the sick, the man who sat with children, fed the hungry, ate with prostitutes, thieves, tax collectors . . . . and murderers. And murderers.

He was the man who claimed to be the Messiah, the Son of the Most High. He is the man who I was told so many times taught in the temples and rebuked the Pharisees. If He is this man, the one with so much power, then why is He being nailed to that cross like a common criminal? What has He done to earn such pain? The thief beside me laughs cynically at the man and the onlookers cry to Him as the last nail is hammered into His feet.

They taunt Him, asking Him to save Himself if he is the true Messiah. My voice does not allow me to join them in their shouts. Why does He not show His power? He could save us all can he not? But the man does not respond. His gaze remains fixed before Him, as if He awaits a divine moment to occur. He focuses His gaze upon naught but the foreboding heavens above, looking for something that is not there.

Watching His face linger upon the slate gray clouds, I no longer contain an urge to question Him, but my curiosity pushes through my own pain. Perhaps these men are wrong, and perhaps this man is the true Messiah. The crowd jests once again, but somehow, deep with my fading heart beats, I believe Him.

They pull the cross up and thunder rumbles in the sky above. They raise Him, O', they have raised Him next to me! He looks up at the twilight sky with full control of His mind. His own breaths are shallow as His chest clenches with each gasp. I hear Him cry out to the Father as I rest my head upon my shoulder, simply staring at Him.

Below, centurions and men are casting lots for His clothes. It churns my stomach. The woman, His mother I assume, silently mourns from her place on the earthen floor. He has her eyes. Quiet tears glisten down her cheeks as she gazes up at her Son. His breaths come in gasps as He too forces His feet down in order to receive the beloved oxygen for which our lungs thirst. In a desperate call, He cries to the One for which He had been searching.

"My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?"

He is only met with the silence and snickering of the platted guards in red. They dip a sponge into a basin of cheap wine and hold it to His lips, but He drinks not. I observe as His chest rises and falls heavily with each strained breath. His mouth hangs agape and blood falls much like a waterfall from His wrists and feet. My own body throbs as the nerves are severed, and I gather all my strength to keep from the blackness that threatens to take me.

The other man, the mad man on the Lord's left, shouts at Him. With scarlet blood pouring from His face, the Lord turns His gaze to me. His eyes . . . they do not carry the bitter anger and gall I had expected. They did not hold condemnation or resentment my own use to hold. They were filled with such sorrow, such pain. And yet, such love. There was no fear in His pupils. Just . . . detachment. His eyes hold so many emotions at once. I can see the deep agony He feels, the shame He wants to hide, the determination as if it is His mission, and the compassion. He gazes at me as if I am the only person who exists, and He smiles crookedly in a mix of pain.

Taking a great gasp He cries, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Passion, that is what is in His eyes.

My breaths come much more shallow now, and I can feel my heart beat slow. It will be soon. The pain that so burned my flesh has now dulled to numbness. How I wish to be able to feel. My life has been but a storybook of numbness.

The mass of faces below has blurred, but are quiet, save for the few sobs from the women. What goes through a man's mind as he awaits his death? I use to wonder that. Now I know. So many thoughts, so many images from years ago. My home, my family, and my little one. They are gone now. I have shamed them from my memory. Times of peace and tranquility. Then, times of mourning. The still lifeless body of my wife, and my little one soon to follow. Every crime I had committed, every transgression, flashes before my mind. How I long to make amends with every soul I have harmed and wronged, but that is impossible. My time is coming soon, so soon.

The man begins to scream again. His mouth only spews poison. He calls not to the crowd, but to the Messiah. He mocks Him and torments Him. Can he not see the pain He is in? His shoulders sag as if He holds the weight of the world upon them, a burden much too heavy to bare. What man can bear such a burden?

Allowing the jeering shouts to fade, I gaze at the Lord hanging on the cross. His breaths are coming much more slowly now, but His eyes hold fire in them. All time begins to stand still and every sin, every error I have every committed plays out before my eyes. Tears sting the corners as I look at the Lord hanging upon that rugged cross beside me, looking much as a lamb in a slaughter. His eyes beg me for something, and my heart wrenches when I cannot determine His request. The thief's protests come into my ears again. He winces.

What does He want? I can neither ease His suffering, nor can I save Him. I am but a dying man. I am but a murderer, a thief. What would the Son of God wish of me?

But, I can remember Him. Perhaps He can remember me also. I have heard Him speak, only once. The images enter my mind. A seashore, and He stands on the side. "He who believes in Me, shall not perish, but have everlasting life."

Life.

Eyes widening, I know what He is asking me, and I open my mouth to reprimand the criminal. My eyes are shut tight and I speak. Voice scratchy and hallow, tears freely falling, I plea to the Lord, "Remember me in Your kingdom." Oh my Messiah, I wish not to die alone. Remember me Lord, please, I do not want to be forgotten. I want to live!

My mouth forms words.

I . . . believe.

Sobs rack my body. The criminal falls silent and swiftly fades away. His chest sags and his mouth is left mid – curse.

The Messiah turns His head to me. A smile forms on His chapped and broken lips. A warmth unlike any I have ever experienced comes welcomingly over my flesh. He gazes at me, scrutinizing my every crevice. But he searches me once more as if I am the most important being in the world to Him. His eyes meet mine, and I see a world of wonder in them. A place I wish to be for eternity.

With a voice filled with suppressed torment, He whispers, "Today, you will be with Me in paradise."

I sigh in content, and the Lord watches as my body sinks down the wooden beam. My lips tug upwards as my mind drifts from all consciousness. I choke and gasp for oxygen, but my body does not respond. Spasms tear through my being. Terror grips my heart as I realize that this is how it feels to fade from existence.

Darkness begins to take me, but a light permeates around my body as I drift further away, the storm clouds melting into the light. And I look once more into His eyes.

A comfort floats about my form without warning, cradling me in its arms. My beating heart ceases to pulse. But . . .I do not fear. A shadow shades my vision and I drift away from the pain, hovering in a place of no space and time. The breaths stop.

My feet touch a moist floor. The blisters do not hurt, and the scars of my hands do not bleed, but the holes remain. My vision is blurred by the sweet glow of pink light. In the distance, the sound of a stream reaches my ears. I am in a garden. The fragrance tingles my nose as I watch the golden stream gush over the smooth pebbles. Lilies and lilacs are the perfume that engulfs my body.

A path stretches before me, and the light blurs my vision. In the distance, upon the hill of pines and ferns, there is a figure, His hand stretching towards me. A voice whispers into my ear, "Come home child," and I follow.

Home . . .

For the first time in years, I am home.

I have come home . . . to paradise.

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Okay all you people, review please! Please, no flames, but give me rational reasons why you do not like this. Flames are mean and only hurt people. Criticism is wanted. Review and I will love you forever, and if you don't. . . I will love you anyways because you read this! Thanks a bunch my brothers and sisters in Christ! Love, Twilight_**


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